


Eternal Vigil

by SisterLucrezia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 14:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1607915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SisterLucrezia/pseuds/SisterLucrezia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been one hundred and twenty-three years since his beloved Sherlock plunged into the icy Niagra Falls to ensure Moriarty's demise. For a man who claimed to be unconcerned with others, he didn't hesitate at all to sacrifice himself to end his menacing of innocent civilians.</p><p>Lestrade was thankful he got to see that side of him well before that day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eternal Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. If you spot an error feel free to let me know!

It had been one hundred and twenty-three years since his beloved Sherlock plunged into the icy Niagra Falls to ensure Moriarty's demise. For a man who claimed to be unconcerned with others, he didn't hesitate at all to sacrifice himself to end his menacing of innocent civilians.

 

Lestrade was thankful he got to see that side of him well before that day.

 

He knew that Sherlock would have been livid if he saw the memorial he had commissioned for him and had placed in Kensal Green Cemetary, nearest to his flat. It was a life-size bust of Sherlock looking into a microscope. Greg had worked carefully with the sculptor to ensure it was done right, especially the generous gap between the lens and the stage. Over the decades he cared for and maintained the memorial, would sit and talk to it as he did many nights when Sherlock was working and let the already centuries-old vampire tell him stories about his many lifetimes. Some nights Lestrade would slump against the back, arms tight around the cool stone, and cry. When he left before dawn, he would kiss its temple and whisper “Take care of yourself Sherlock”, before heading back to the sanctuary he had made of 221b.

 

This night however was a special one.

 

He woke up a bit early this evening to get dressed and prepare himself, then when night had fallen he sought out a single flower- this year he found a Digitalis Lutea- Straw Foxglove- to bring to the grave. Sherlock's love of bees led Greg to use bee-attracting blooms on this and most every single anniversary.

 

Lestrade slipped into the old cemetery and headed straight for the memorial. Sometimes he thinks about the myth about vampires and Christian symbols and laughs to himself, but then he shudders because the thought of not being able to visit Sherlock's grave ever again would have driven him mad.

 

As the marker comes into view Lestrade's throat tightens- he knew since three nights ago that this would likely be a weeping night. Ever since some young British actor that could have been Sherlock's twin became globally famous he's had to avoid media as much as possible so he wouldn't be driven to throw himself into full sunlight to end the pain. The last few years have been Greg's hardest since Sherlock first died.

 

This night, he has to summon all his strength to actually reach the statue before breaking down crying, his cheek on the nape of the busts' neck, his hands gripping the statues' hands. He berates, praises, snaps at and pleads with the stone, the tangled mass of emotions finally pouring out like a burst dam.

 

Greg does not move and does not pause as he weeps for hours. Only his internal clock tugging at him from the edges of his brain alerts him to dawn's approach. He pulls himself together as much as possible, wiping his face with his jacket sleeve. As Greg starts to step back he sees where his tears have left the stone wet along the side of its neck and down the back and chest and his breath catches. It resembled so strongly the way Sherlock's blood would drip and smear when Lestrade bit him during lovemaking. Suddenly he grins, the flood of hormones and memories lifting his spirits just enough.

 

He pickes up the Foxglove he had dropped and places it on the microscope stage. Then he leans in and whispers to the statue the same words as always.

 

“Take care of yourself, Sherlock.”

 


End file.
